


To Love a Holmes

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Post-The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15430521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: Loving a Holmes isn't easy. But it is always, always worth it.





	To Love a Holmes

**Siger and Violet, May 1976**

He had that casual swagger that both irked and impressed her in equal measure as he strolled across the lawn, zeroed in on her. She narrowed her eyes at him over the top of her book.

“Missed you in class today,” he ignored her glare and dropped onto the bench beside her, his curls hanging over his eyes. “Avoiding me?”

She made a show of turning a page, eyebrow arched. She hadn’t needed to attend lecture, in fact. The professor was, quite frankly, an imbecile and wasting an afternoon listening to him drone on, interspersed with incorrect assumptions, was not high on her list.

“Come on, Vi. Aren’t you tired of fighting your heart?”

He had the audacity to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing along her neck. Against her will she shivered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

She was a logical woman. Science and maths, equation to conclusion, these were the loves of her life. But seeing the raw adoration in his eyes shook her and something that had been struggling in her finally broke free.

He leaned closer and her breath quickened.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His lips turned into a silly smirk that most certainly did not make her stomach flood with butterflies. Her gaze locked on his lips that seemed to be closer than they were a second ago.

“Making it harder for you to resist.”

_Arrogant cad!_ Was the last thought she had before he proceeded to snog her silly and made her forget just why she had been so resistant to the man in the first place.

**Mycroft and Anthea, December 2005**

The fire crackled and hissed in the hearth and outside the wind howled as the storm raged.

And hanging by his ankles in front of the fire, arms bound with rope, Mycroft swayed in a dizzying circle. Alive, if a bit motion sick.

The silence was thick, anticipatory, after the sudden, but brief cacophony of shouts and grunts, wood splintering and painful thuds.

The door creaked open and at the familiar high-heeled cadence of her footsteps, he twisted his neck to look. With the swish of a blade, his arms were freed.

“Right on time.” She narrowed her eyes at the thread of pain in his voice as he removed the gag from his mouth.

"I don’t believe being beaten and hung like a pig to be slaughtered was in the plan,” she commented coolly as she cut him down. He landed with a pained groan on the shag rug. Standing over him, Anthea glared, hands on her hips.

With effort, Mycroft sat up and proceeded to rub the feeling back into his abused arms and legs. “An unexpected deviation, but hardly enough to derail the operation.” On shaky legs, he stood unassisted and gave her his most imperious stare. “Our success was inevitable. Worrying for my safety will only impede your work.”

The air between them was taut and she returned his glare. 

47 minutes.

He had been radio silent for 47 minutes.

She had brought Hell down on anyone who stood in her path to get him back. 

Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash, but the anger she knew she should be burning with was gone. In its place was only a deep, all-consuming love.  

“I will always worry about you,” she declared softly. She could take out an black ops team of twelve men single-handedly (and had just done so); but it took all her courage to bring herself to lean forward and place a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, her hand braced lightly against his chest. “And I will always be there to save you.”

As soon as her lips touched his cheek, his breath caught. She closed her eyes and stepped back, shame coloring her cheeks. But his hand on her waist halted her retreat. Her eyes flew to his, their dark depths unreadable. And then he pulled her back and, unlike her, he didn’t miss, his kiss landing right where she wanted it to.

To the outside world, this would change nothing. But they both knew that there was no going back now. 

**Sherlock and Molly, June 2017**

Baker Street was in absolute ruin. It would take months before it was habitable once more. John had offered to take Sherlock in, but she knew he needed some space, time to heal, to focus on his daughter.

Mycroft had also offered to put them both up in a nice hotel, separate rooms of course. But despite the lingering feeling of her home having been invaded by a psychopath, it had been cleared and she preferred to lick her wounds in the comfort of her own home.

Sherlock lasted one day in a hotel before he tentatively knocked on her door. Red-eyed, exhausted, and as vulnerable as she’d ever seen him, she couldn’t turn him away. 

Before, when he had used her flat as a bolt-hole, he was an all-consuming flatmate. Wherever she was, he also was, taking over her bathroom, bedroom, sitting room wall…if it could serve a purpose, he used it. 

Now…he was almost a ghost.

The only evidence of his co-existence in the flat were the occasional coffee mugs washed and set to dry, a dollop of shaving cream he missed on the corner of the sink, and food in Toby’s bowl first thing in the morning.

He took the spare room without complaint and, even at night, she didn’t hear a peep out of him. No violin music, no pacing, not a single sound.

She worried about him. But knew he was healing, just like she was, in his own way. 

Until she came home from work early one day. Baker Street was nearly complete and she had been wondering how things would be between them once he returned to his own place. If they would ever get back to where they had been before Sherrinford.

It was only mid-afternoon, well before she usually returned home, and she quietly let herself in.

There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere and for a moment, she wondered if he had gone out. 

But then she heard something. A muffled, pained whimper. 

Dropping her work bag by the door, she moved down the hall, eyes locked on the closed door to the spare room. She held her breath and listened.

There it was again. Followed by a choked sob.

Gently, she tapped her knuckles on the door. “Sherlock?” She called quietly.

Another sob. 

She bit her lip and turned the knob, letting herself in. The shades were drawn to block out the sun. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and when they did, her heart broke in two. 

In the middle of the bed, covers twisted around him and drenched in sweat, Sherlock fought against an unseen demon. 

“No, please. Not her, leave her…” he groaned, brow twisted in agony. 

Molly stepped closer, debating with herself if she should wake him up or just leave, but then he cried out again. Her name. Molly.

He sounded so afraid, so heartbroken.

She slowly laid down on the other side of the bed. His hand clenched the sheets between them, his knuckles white, and she carefully reached out. At her touch, he flinched, but she persisted and slowly covered his hand with hers. She began to stroke his wrist in a soothing rhythm and little by little he relaxed. His heartbeat slowed and the panic on his face faded. 

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. But she stayed, watching over him, until his breathing evened and his lips parted, peace finally claiming him. 

Against her will, her eyes grew heavy, sleep pulling her away, as well. When they woke up, they would talk, their hands still together, laying side by side on her spare bed. 

But in this moment, just as she fell into the first restful sleep she’d had since it all began, she whispered what was still, what would always, be in her heart.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

She was sure it was only her imagination that whispered back to her just as she welcomed the sweet bliss of sleep that swept her away.

_“I love you, Molly.”_


End file.
